


Midnight Confessions

by guti



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Jamie Carragher wearing a United shirt, Locker Room, M/M, Michael Carrick's testimonial match, Old Trafford, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 07:57:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11664888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/pseuds/guti
Summary: “If you’re implying that I’m drunk…” Gary trails off, blinking slowly.  The nervous feeling in Jamie’s stomach won’t go away, and it only gets worse as Gary gives him a coy little smile.  He has the audacity to look almost innocent as he scrutinizes Jamie’s face,  “I’m not drunk.  I’m buzzing.  I’m fine.  And you’ve got the prettiest eyes.”Jamie very nearly chokes.  “What?”Gary seems undeterred, taking a thoughtful pause before saying, “I think I might be in love with you.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this takes place in an AU where this is all plausible and where carra and gaz were on the same continent during the europa league final. okay?  okay.
> 
> also much love to gabbyola for encouraging me to finish this up!! <3

Whatever possessed him to pick up his ringing phone and agree to this madness, Jamie can’t really be sure.  All he can hope to claim in his defense is that it sounded like a fun idea at the time.  Drinks with Gary were generally an enjoyable event.  Watching football with Gary was just as, if not even more enjoyable.  But he’s already said he’d stop over at Gary’s place to watch the Europa League final before it all properly registers that he’s volunteered to spend the better part of his evening watching his Manc pal get pissed and sing GGMU all night long, no matter the end result.

And it is, he might add, a most trying experience.  Right before his eyes he has to sit there and watch United clench not only their second piece of silverware in the season, but also their spot in the Champions League.  Jamie feels his blood starting to boil.  Liverpool’ll have to go through the playoffs and United secure a place despite finishing in sixth?  What sort of fuckery is this anyway?  How, in any universe, is any of that even remotely fair?  As the final whistle sounds and Mourinho and company stream onto the pitch to celebrate, Jamie sinks back into Gary’s big plush sofa and knocks back what’s left of his fifth beer.  A few feet away, Gary lets out a howl of victory.

Jamie rolls his eyes, quietly admitting his growing fondness to himself as Gary dances around the living room in celebration.  Truth be told, deep down, he knows exactly why he accepted Gary’s offer to come around.  It’s all just a matter of admitting that the good parts of spending time with Gary significantly outweigh the bad.  Yes, even the festering blood feud between them was managing to heal, once the hatchets were dropped and buried and the seeds of friendship planted in their place.  And those seeds have started to grow and blossom into something else, something bigger and more vibrant, something that makes Jamie’s heart race each time he and Gary share a smile while sitting across from each other, or when their hands brush because they’re standing so close.  It’s a lot to reckon with, and quite frankly, Jamie isn't sure he’s ready to face his own emotions head on.  Not now, not yet, not when there’s still a decent chance he can shake the feeling off and get himself back to the status quo.

Which is partly why he can’t believe he’s just gonna sit there watching Gary prance around like an injured crane, buzzing from the victory and from being a lightweight while players in the wrong shade of red lift a trophy and get heaped with praise all night long.  He might be somewhat fond of Gary Neville, but there are lines that cannot be crossed, friendship (or whatever) be damned.  

Huffing, Jamie finds his feet and wanders into Gary’s kitchen, knowing full well that there’s bound to be something stronger to drink in there.  Lord knows Gary’s fond of wine, but maybe he’ll have something stronger, something sharp enough to take of the edge and mute the United songs being sung at the top of Gary’s lungs.  Jamie rummages around, checking cupboards, the pantry, the refrigerator, until he finds something suitable to do the trick.

He returns to the living room two shot glasses in hand, and sets them down on the coffee table along with a brown glass bottle.  Gary’s ceased his celebration and yelling and sinks down on the sofa beside Jamie, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Where’d that come from?” He asks brightly, cheeks very nearly as red as his shirt.

Jamie snorts at him as he pries off the lid of the bottle.  “It was in your kitchen, knob.”  Gary raises his eyebrows at that, while Jamie pours them each a shot of whisky.  

Gary takes hold of one of the glasses without hesitation and throws it back before Jamie can even crack wise about him needing to pace himself, and as Gary’s face scrunches from the shot, Jamie seizes his opportunity to turn off the television.  Luckily, Gary doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Right then,” Jamie chirps, “Cheers.”

He’s barely set his glass back down on the table when Gary’s taken hold of the bottle and started to pour another round.  “Helluva night, yeah?  Just the sort of celebration this club needs.”  He pauses mid-pour to flash Jamie a smile.

“Yeah, well, I suppose it’s nice to see you lot have been put out of your misery.  Trust me, Gary, it’s been torture listening to you whinging about missing out on the Champions League all this time.”  Gary says nothing.  Jamie can tell Gary is trying not to look smug, but given the circumstances, he’s willing to give him a free pass on it.  Just this once though, after tomorrow, all bets are off.  “I still can’t believe I’m actually here celebrating United’s return to the Champions League.  If word ever got out about this, I’d lose every last ounce of my credibility.”

Gary laughs at him, sliding the refilled shot glass back toward Jamie  “You talk as though you had any to begin with.”  

“Ouch, mate.  You’re breaking me heart.”

“Now now, none of your sulking or your well-intentioned, yet poorly executed mockery.  You don’t want to celebrate United, fine.  Let’s drink to of both our sides being back in the Champions League.  And at the expense of Arsenal, too.”

Jamie can’t help but snicker as he puts back his second shot, eyes glinting as he watches Gary do the same, reacting a little lazily while Gary shifts against the couch cushions and ends up maddeningly close to him.  Is it a come-on, he wonders.  Is Gary trying to tempt him into making a move?  He shakes the thought from his mind and makes a move anyway, slinging his arm over the back of the couch, fingers dangerously close to Gary’s shoulders.

Gary seems oblivious to it all, leaning across to pour another round before Jamie can protest or even register a coherent thought.  They both only manage to drink half a shot before the glasses are set awkwardly back on the table, the remainders of the contents a bridge too far for the pair of them.

“The whisky was a bad idea,” Gary says softly, voice hitching in his throat.  Jamie catches sight of the glassy look in his eye and winces a little.  “Not that I mind it.  Just in a mood to celebrate tonight, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jamie said.  His own head felt a bit swimmy too, come to think of it.  He blinked a few times, quickly losing focus.  “This is what happens when we drink too much.”

“Mm.”  Gary tilts his chin so that he’s able to lazily gaze at Jamie from out of the corner of his eye.  He doesn’t say anything more though, and Jamie finds it all a shade unnerving.  He fidgets slightly, eyes fixed on Gary, until the other man quirks an eyebrow at him, as if to spur him to speak.

“What?” Jamie asks, eyes gone wide and slightly out of focus.

Gary gives a short, manic sort of laugh and sinks back against the sofa, nearly pinning Jamie’s arm in place.  “I don’t know,” he says, breathing a bit heavy.  “Just had this idea, that’s all.”

“Oh?”  Jamie isn’t sure if he really ought to ask, but his reason is quickly leaving him and he finds that he is slowly becoming entranced by the Gary’s striking asymmetrical features, and the way the lines of his forehead seem to relax now that he’s properly pissed and in a jovial mood.  “If it’s anything to do with more drinking, I’m already vetoing it.  I’ve had plenty, and if I’ve had plenty, you’ve had double that.”

“If you’re implying that I’m drunk…” Gary trails off, blinking slowly.  The nervous feeling in Jamie’s stomach won’t go away, and it only gets worse as Gary gives him a coy little smile.  He has the audacity to look almost innocent as he scrutinizes Jamie’s face,  “I’m not drunk.  I’m buzzing.  I’m fine.  And you’ve got the prettiest eyes.”

Jamie very nearly chokes.  “What?”

Gary seems undeterred, taking a thoughtful pause before saying, “I think I might be in love with you.”

The pair of them sit there staring at one another, the silence palpable between them, until all at once they both burst out into uproarious drunken laughter.

“What are you on about?” Jamie asks, tears forming from the corners of his eyes, belly aching from laughing too hard. He can’t believe his ears. 

“Said I think I’m in love with you,” Gary wheezes gleefully, his head tilting back drunkenly, his throat exposed and vulnerable and just begging to be kissed.

Jamie licks his lips, then quickly averts his gaze as Gary sits there smiling.  The hopeful look in his eyes is just as obvious as the look of intoxication, and Jamie has to keep his eyes away lest he fall under his spell and be rendered helpless for all time.  Besides that, he heartbeat feels like a hammer in his chest, pounding so hard he might just break his ribs.  The room suddenly feels hot, very hot, so hot Jamie wonders if he might burst into flames on the spot.  He can feel his cheeks burning red, not from embarrassment so much as from hope.

Hope?  How could he allow such a thing to come over him and smack him upside the head so brutally?  Sure, he’s felt something growing between them for months now, something different, an emotion whose name he can’t quite bring himself to acknowledge.  It isn’t love, he’s almost certain of that fact.  But even if it _were_ love, he’s dizzy from thinking about the can of worms that’s just been dumped onto his lap.

So he does what’s right, what’s sensible.

“You’re drunk, mate,” Jamie mumbles, rising to his feet.  He reaches down to offer Gary a hand to help him up.  “Come on.  Let’s put you to bed.”

Gary practically leers at him, making a face which could either be interpreted as pained or a mad attempt at seduction, one which leaves Jamie feeling mildly unsure as he takes Gary’s hands in his and pulls him up to his feet.  “Come to bed with me.”

He shakes his head, firmly this time, like he’s nearly convinced himself, “I can’t.”

“Of course you can,” Gary says, cheeky grin on his face as he takes a bold step forward.  “You want to, don’t you?”

Jamie hesitates, letting himself be cornered.  It’s true, he would like nothing more than to stay.  He’d like nothing more than to bend Gary over the arm of the love seat, yank his trousers down, and fuck him as hard as he can, make him beg and scream and plead for him, make him forget about everything in the world but Jamie and Jamie alone.  He’d like nothing more than to take Gary upstairs to the master bathroom and stand with him under the shower and just kiss him, hold him in his arms, run his fingers over Gary’s muscles, lap droplets of warm water from his neck.  He’d like nothing more than to crawl into his big bed beside him, drunk and giddy and too amped up to sleep, to spend the night egging Gary on, pressing all of his buttons, riling him up until Gary pounces on him, pins him down, takes him.

_Fuck_.

It pains Jamie to think about this, pains him to admit to himself that it’s what he wants, what he’s wanted for a long time now.  Especially now, especially tonight, when United add another trophy to their appallingly large collection, though it’s not necessarily about football, really.  It’s more about giving in and giving up denial.  It’s about doing what he’s needed to do, it’s about— 

He snaps back into the present the moment Gary’s lips press to his neck and he whispers, “Come to bed with me, Carra.”

Oh, how tempting it is.  How he longs to run his hands through Gary’s hair and pull him in for a rough, needy kiss.  He can imagine what his mouth would taste like, he can just about envision how Gary would look, naked in bed with him, demanding and demonstrative.  Jamie almost says yes, almost takes hold of Gary’s chin to tilt it up for a kiss, but as Gary exhales against Jamie’s skin, Jamie catches the strong scent of liquor on his breath, and he realizes then and there what he must do.

“It’s not a good idea,” Jamie says as he extracts himself from Gary’s clutches before the older man can quite react.  “Not now, leastways.”

Gary just about pouts as Jamie makes his way toward the door.  “Carra,” he murmurs as Jamie pulls on his shoes.  

“Another time,” Jamie answers while putting on his jacket.  “I’ll call you. I promise.”

Gary tilts his head, like he’s scrutinizing everything that’s gone on between them up to this point, then he slowly nods.  Jamie gives him a meek smile before heading out the door, and he tries his best to put it all out of his mind, once he’s safe at home, once he’s had a wank in the shower just imagining what might’ve been if he weren’t completely certain that Gary would regret it in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t see Gary again for over a week, and truth be told he’s going a little mad thinking over the events of that night again and again. Regret is a strong word for what he’s feeling, but it’s something akin to that. He’d never want to take advantage of Gary when he was drunk, obviously, but some part of him almost wishes he’d given in and let Gary kiss him and touch him and take him to bed, and for that Jamie feels rather guilty.

Not guilty enough to back off when they face off against each other at Carrick’s testimonial, mind. But guilty enough that he feels a pang of jealousy when he spies Gary and his ex-United mates laughing and carrying on about something that’s apparently extremely hilarious. Jamie grits his teeth and quickly trots away toward his own team of All-Stars, resolving to forget all about that rat-faced Gary Neville and set everything back the way it used to be, before they were ever even friends, before Jamie maybe loved him too.

He pushes that thought away, swallows back any hint of softness he feels toward Gary. It’s a tall order, especially hindered by Gary’s midnight confession. Who can believe the ramblings of a man drunk off whisky _and_ a major title? Gary got carried away in the excitement of the moment and said something ridiculous. There’s no more to the story than that, no matter how Jamie wishes for it all to be true. Still, his mind wanders as he warms up for the match. What if Gary really does feel the same way? What if the only barrier between them is their own inability to be emotionally mature and _talk about it_? What if he were to stomp across to the other side of the field where those Manc bastards are stretching and practicing, march right up to Gary and kiss him? Right there, in front of his mates and all his fans and his precious Sir Alex, right there in their ~Theatre of Dreams~… Jamie cackles out loud at the thought, then realizes JT and several others are giving him looks of confusion. 

Still, he’s on the pitch at Old Trafford, and what’s a match day there if he’s not playing a little rough? When the opportunity to dirty tackle Gary presents itself, Jamie takes it with both hands and together the fall heavily to the ground. The crowd reacts in an odd mix of astonishment and amusement— not _exactly_ what Jamie’d expected, but enough to make him grin as he pants over Gary, then dashes away. He doesn’t stick around to see Gary’s expression, but he’s sure he can guess what it is. Jamie can’t help but feel rather pleased with himself. 

They give their obligatory interview for Sky afterward the final whistle, both of them breathless and sweating, standing close together as they’re asked about the match, their old rivalry, their plans for later. Everything’s cordial, they both know the routine. One makes a joke, the other responds with appropriate banter, they swap roles, they sign off. Their smiles look genuine, because they are, and when they look at each other, the heat between them is palpable. And then they’re left alone, standing together on the pitch, and somehow relatively out of the spotlight.

“You alright?” Jamie asks him, casual as can be.

Gary eyes him, looking a bit wary before he cracks a small smile. “Why wouldn’t I be? You forget where we are, Carra?”

“No actually, I’m very keenly aware of it,” Jamie says, falling into step with Gary as they walk together off the pitch. “And I know what United does to you.”

Gary furrows his brows and slows his pace, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

If warning sirens were a real thing, Jamie’d have them going off in his head right about now. He knows he ought to choose his words carefully, lest he start some great ruckus here on enemy ground without anyone to back him up. Instead he tries to play it off with a little shrug, like it’s nothing at all. “You just love them. They make you _feel_ things.”

They’re just inside and Gary comes to a full stop, leveling Jamie with the sort of look that might’ve made him blanch if he were twenty years younger and standing in the exact same spot. Jamie swallows his trepidation and their eyes meet, and Gary winds up shaking his head in frustration. “I’ve no idea what you’re going on about, Jamie, honestly.”

Jamie blinks, splutters, “I just meant that—”

“Of course I _feel_ things for United. Of course I love them. How could I possibly not?”

“I—”

“You can’t give your entire life to a club and not love them. You know just as well as I. So don’t sound so snide.” Gary’s voice gets a little loud then, but it’s not anger Jamie hears so much as desperation. It’s almost a plea, like he’s begging Jamie to just understand.

But that’s what makes it all so confusing. Jamie _does_ get it. He understands Gary perfectly, which is why it distresses him the way it does. How could Gary give his entire life to United, celebrate their win as if he were on the pitch himself, and then turn to the most Scouse of all Scousers and say he’s in love? And how could Jamie, the most Scouse of all Scousers, sit there, inches away from him, so desperate for a kiss that it was physically painful? How could he give his life, his _entire being_ to Liverpool and then betray them by falling in love with a Manc? 

“I meant what I said, you know.” Gary says, snapping Jamie out of his trance. He’s dropped his voice again, so hushed that Jamie nearly has to strain to hear him over the echoes in the tunnel, not quite sure he’s heard Gary correctly. “The other night, I mean. I was serious when I said that.”

“Thought you were drunk,” says Jamie, shifting nervously to one foot, pointedly looking away from him.

“You didn’t call.”

Jamie looks up then, the traces of hurt in Gary’s eyes making him wince. “Thought you were drunk,” he says again. “I didn’t think you’d remember it.”

Gary scoffs at him, arms crossed. “Give me a bit of credit, James. I may be a lightweight but I wasn't that far gone.”

There’s a voice from further down the hall. Someone’s calling for Gary, one of his old mates, Jamie supposes with some disappointment. He watches Gary’s expression change from something sad to the picture of joviality as he shouts something back, and for whatever reason, Jamie finds that he feels incredibly jealous. He very badly wished that instead of making Gary scowl, he could light him up like that.

“I should’ve called,” Jamie mumbles. Gary looks back to him, brows knitting perplexedly. “Dunno why I didn’t, I…” His words fall uselessly from his lips and he feels rather stupider than he did before he started speaking. His eyes meet Gary’s then, and Jamie’s mind goes blank except for one thought which bounces around and around and around.

_Kiss him. Kiss him Kiss him._

He very nearly does. He leans in, jaw tilted at just the right angle, eyes about to close just before his and Gary’s lips meet when he feels Gary’s palm firmly on his chest, holding him back, keeping them apart.

“You weren’t really going to kiss me in the tunnel of Old Trafford, were you?”

Jamie frowns at him, all at once embarrassed and confused. “What’s wrong with—”

“You’re absolutely shameless,” Gary exhales, almost looking scandalized by the very notion, his hand still pressed to Jamie’s chest.

“I thought you wanted me to.” Jamie can feel the blood rushing to his face. He doesn’t embarrass easily, but dammit if this isn’t just about the most mortifying thing he’s ever done. He could kick himself for being so foolish.

Gary shakes his head and tightens his hand into a fist, bunching up the fabric of Jamie’s shirt between his fingers. He tugs gently at first, then more sharply as he takes a few steps down the hall, pulling Jamie along after him.

“Where’re we going?” Jamie asks, cheeks still red as Gary’s shirt as he staggers after him.

“Someplace where we won’t cause a scene,” Gary answers just before they burst into the home dressing room.

Jamie wants to ask how Gary knows they’ll be alone in there— after all, Carrick’s just had his testimonial and there’s bound to be some stragglers hanging about. But Gary moves with such confidence, such authority that Jamie doesn’t bother saying a word. He trusts that Gary isn’t leading him right into the lion’s den and to his doom. Not when they’ve just said what they’ve said and all.

By some great miracle the dressing room is all theirs. Gary finally lets go of Jamie’s white top, only to push him backwards by the shoulder and into the dressing room door. Jamie lets out a small noise of protest which Gary muffles with an eager kiss, both of his hands clapping Jamie’s face, urging to kiss him back, to need him too.

And he _does_ kiss him back, because he _does_ need Gary, needs him like he needs oxygen to breathe, needs him like a flower needs the sun. He isn’t shy about it either, though he lets Gary pin him back against the door, he’s rather responsive, with little moans escaping his lips, his own hands snaking around Gary’s back to pull him in as tight as he can. Their bodies press together, their half-hard cocks brushing through the fabric of their shorts. The kisses grow slightly more tentative for a moment before their vigor is renewed and they paw at each other greedily. 

They part for a moment. Jamie yanks on Gary’s jersey, his United jersey, trying to force him to take it off. Gary snorts at him and shakes his head, and Jamie stops, biting his lower lip in frustration. 

“Jamie,” Gary says, voice a rough growl. “Take your shorts off.” Without waiting for a response, he pulled down Jamie’s shorts and pants, leaving his hardening cock out and exposed. Gary looks down at Jamie’s cock, almost like he’s trying to be sly about it before he takes hold of him, touching him lightly at first, slowly smirking as Jamie gets nice and hard in his hand.

Jamie watches him, slightly dumbfounded and anxious, unsure if he should do anything or just let Gary touch him and do as he pleases. His tongue darts over his lips, a sense of impatience growing in him steadily. 

Gary leans in then for another kiss, and he takes his time, slowly kissing Jamie, fully in control of the situation. Jamie is taken aback, but he finds he likes it. There’s something so incredibly sexy about the way Gary’s fingers tangle in Jamie’s short hair, and in the way their bodies move together as their kisses become more frantic. 

Jamie grabs at Gary’s shirt again, not as forceful this time, but demanding nonetheless. Gary pulls back from him and their eyes meet, pupils huge, both of them swaying slightly from either exhaustion or arousal or both. Jamie then looks pointedly at the crest on Gary’s shirt. Gary looks down at it too. And then he does something unexpected. He takes it off and hands it to Jamie.

“Put it on,” Gary says. Jamie stares at him like he can’t decide whether he's joking or not. He opens his mouth to voice his protestations, but Gary preemptively silences him by tracing his fingertips down Jamie’s stomach, then loosely taking hold of his cock. Jamie winces. He’s as hard as he’s ever been in his life and somehow he’s at the mercy of this Manc. Gary raises an eyebrow, stroking the length of Jamie’s dick a couple of times, coating the head with precum. “Put it on, James.”

His knees feel slightly wobbly, and he stares daggers at the offending garment. A bloody Man. United shirt. Bloody Gary Neville’s United shirt. If he had his wits about him, he’d have stormed out of the place already. But then, he’s never really been able to think straight with Gary around, even before they— 

Jamie pushes the thought aside, finding that he’s shivering a little and that Gary is still looking him squarely in the eyes. He swallows back whatever dignity he’s managed to keep for all of his years and pulls the red garment over his head. Gary exhales sharply, and as soon as Jamie has his arms through the holes, Gary’s practically pounced on him, kissing his mouth, his jaw, sucking on his throat hard enough that there’s bound to be a bruise. He lets out a ragged moan as Gary kisses him, and he holds Gary close to him, shamelessly rutting against his thigh.

Gary nips at his ear, his breath tickling while his stubble leaves a little scratch. Jamie feels like he’s going to turn into putty in his hands, or worse… though he can’t come up with much worse than wearing a United shirt at Old Trafford and humping Rat Boy’s leg. 

The second he thinks that, he’s angry with himself. Gary’s not a rat. Gary’s a… he’s… well… he’s a lot of things. He’s brilliant, probably the smartest person Jamie knows, and not just about football either. And he’s funny, with a sense of humor that’s better than most of Jamie’s own mates. And he’s gorgeous. Sure, he’s not got the looks to sell magazines or clothing, but there’s no denying the intensity in his eyes, or the strength he still has, even after all these years. He always had that wild look about him, and if Jamie had been honest with himself years ago he might’ve admitted how much he fancied Gary way back when. But that’s fine, it’s all past now, and he has Gary right here before him, kissing his neck, sending shivers down his spine, driving Jamie absolutely mad.

And beyond that, if he were to really and truly be honest, Gary is probably his best friend now. Not that he’s forsaken Stevie or any of his other mates. But who does he spend most of his time with anymore? Who is the first one he texts in the morning and the last one he texts at night? Who does he feel comfortable talking to about anything, _everything_? It’s Gary. It’s Gary, and it’s been Gary for years now, and Jamie feels like an absolute fool for not having faced the music up until now.

“I think I’m in love with you, Gary.”

Gary halts, staying where he is with his head in the crook of Jamie’s neck, breathing heavily. 

Jamie peeks at him from the corner of his eye, trying to catch a glimpse of Gary’s expression and coming up short. “I said I think I’m in love with you.”

Gary finally pulls away enough that Jamie can see his face, and he’s looking a tad out of sorts. He keeps his hands on Jamie’s forearms, steadying himself as he lets out a sharp laugh. “I know you are. I highly doubt you’d ever in your life wear a United shirt if you weren’t.”

Jamie can’t help but laugh too, though his sounds far more helpless than Gary’s does. He slings his arms over Gary’s shoulders, leaning forward so that their foreheads touch and they’re eye to eye, nose to nose. Gary smirks at him. Jamie breathlessly laughs again.

“I should’ve called.”

“It’s fine. We’re here now.”

“I didn’t want you to regret it.”

“I wasn’t that drunk, you know.”

“You were, Gary.”

“And even if I _were_ drunk, I still wanted you in bed with me.”

“I didn’t want some quick shag and then have us fall out over it afterward.”

“I already told you I was in love with you.”

“I know, but… I wanted to make love to you.”

“That’s quite convenient, seeing as I’m willing and you’re ready to go.”

Jamie visibly winces, gazing down at his still hard cock. 

“You can take the shirt off now, James.” Gary grins, then tilts his chin up to kiss the tip of Jamie’s nose. “Come on and fuck me in the shower. We can do it all romantic-like when we get home.”

***

Later that night, when he’s dozing off in Gary’s bed, he vaguely thinks he hears the mumbled words to Glory Glory Man United coming from somewhere. Confused, he props himself up on his elbows and looks over to Gary, eyes shut tight, breathing softly beside him. Jamie sighs. He swallows his pride, wraps his arm around Gary’s middle and holds him tight, burying his nose into the back of Gary’s neck.

In the dark beside him, Gary smiles.


End file.
